Snapshots of Memory
by Niniel Uskglass
Summary: Written in the style of Holden Caulfield from Catcher in the Rye this draws inspiration from Citizen Kane the movie and what my life might have been like.
1. Chapter 1

I'd love to say my life is interesting, but it's not. But, let me tell you how I got to the place I am today. You might find it interesting to listen to my memories and my complaints. I don't usually do, but maybe because I've already lived it, I remember the stuff I'm talking about. It gets kind of dull to hear the same painful memories over and over again. It's just not pleasant. But maybe you'll find them entertaining. Who knows, you're obviously somebody I'm not if you're even reading this. Oh well, I guess I might as well start now. At the very beginning.

It all began when I had a normal house. Normal though, what a shallow thing to say. Normal is really whatever you're used to. It's also used by people who either can't really remember or don't feel like going into details. I have a lousy memory. So, I guess I'll say I led a very normal life. I was a fairly happy child. My parents got divorced around the third grade, I can't remember much, I just remember some huge courtroom where my parents argued until they were both hoarse. Then, for some reason, I had to say goodbye forever to mommy and go live with daddy. Thinking back now, it was probably some huge lawsuit for custody over me. I don't really remember. All I know is, my dad won. He had a lot of money. My dad made me leave my old elementary school, I think it was called Laurel Elementary (I was very young, it's quite difficult to go that far back). I transferred to Crystal Springs Elementary, an entirely different universe with a new set of kids and social quirks. As I said before, my dad was quite wealthy so I had pretty much everything I wanted.

During middle school I remember having a lot of friends. I was pretty popular. I was one of those girls that, looking back, if I was smarter, I should've hated. In other words, I was a cheerleader. I always had these huge parties on the weekends because my dad and step mom were hardly ever home. They were so immersed in each other they only paid attention to me around other family. We had to look like the perfect family; a hard working father, a stay at home mom, a popular daughter. What a load of crap. It was like in that play, "Smile", where they won 'Family of the Year Award', but the mother was an uptight cheater and the son was always taking pictures of girls in the shower and then trying to sell them to his friends. God, wouldn't it be great if you could have a picture of your perfect family do all the your entertaining for you? You wouldn't have to act so fake and you could walk away and lead a real life while it projected that 'perfect image'. It was always especially fake around the holidays, when you had to be perfect for company. I remember coming home and feeling so drained, so emotionally and physically tired, after pretending to be someone I wasn't for two weeks. Even four days of a perfect life just about killed me. It was always kind of a relief to come home to my friends, even though they were fake and liked to look perfect themselves.

God, I hope I wasn't really as superficial as them. They only cared about guys and what people thought of them. They were constantly going to the mall, and complaining that they were fat. That's one thing that really bugs me, because not all of them who said they were fat actually thought they were. They were all just afraid that if they didn't think they were fat, everybody else would think they were conceited. But of course, no matter how much someone insisted they were fat, you always told them they were skinny. And then, while one was saying how the other wasn't fat, the one girl wouldn't want the other girl to be the center of attention, and so she would turn it around to herself, while at the same time, trying to make the other girl feel better. "You're not fat, I'm fat." Two birds with one stone! And then, they contradicted themselves so much. I remember talking to this one girl, Stephanie, and telling her she wasn't fat. I told her she sounded just like this other girl Isabel. They were also about the same weight. She insisted she was different, "Isabel's not fat, she just has self-image problems." And you don't? Stephanie also bit her nails, especially when she got nervous. It's such a disgusting habit; it makes your nails all grody and it makes you seem like you have no self- confidence. That's what bugs me; people always assume that just because someone is popular, they have a lot of self-confidence. They may look perfect, but they're really not. And another thing, everybody always assumes popular people are superficial and mean and conceited. Of course, they can be, but so can anybody else. Besides, it's not like I was conceited or anything.

I was the smartest one of all of us. Everybody would always ask for the answers, especially in English. I don't exactly remember when I got into writing plays, probably somewhere around high school. A play is so much better than a book, if it's well written; the feelings of the playwright will come through without being directly stated. Not like most of my early writing. I ended up burning most of that stuff, along with a lot of schoolwork from elementary and middle school. Boy, was that a nostalgic and depressing day. Looking through my old stuff always makes me feel like I want to be younger again, it makes me think about what I did and how much fun I had, and then I get to asking myself why I don't do anything like that anymore, and then I realize it's because I'm in my thirties and I have a job. But it always makes me depressed. Jobs aren't fun at all, except for when I was a playwright. After high school, I left my "perfect" family and came east to write plays.


	2. Chapter 2

I lived by myself for the first few years. I cooped myself up all day writing and then at night I would go out to nightclubs and just sit and watch people. The general population consists of some strange folks; it's funny how usually I can't relate to most people at all. I couldn't then either, I don't really know why. But, all the people who were in nightclubs always gave me great inspirations for plays and I would go home and write. Most of my plays started out being crap like soap operas, but eventually they became better. I remember when I first had one of my plays accepted by a publishing house. I went downstairs to go get the mail, and when I saw the heavy package I knew they had sent it back, they always sent them back. So, I slowly lugged it upstairs and began to open it so I could put the manuscript away on the dusty shelf with all the other ones. Once I got it open, I realized my play wasn't in there. Instead, there was all kinds of paperwork about copyright and stuff like that. I immediately jumped up and down in my apartment and didn't stop until the people below me started yelling. But, that was the first one.

The most famous one was on Broadway for about five years, "My Big Red Apple"; it was a lot like "The Doll House" by Ibsen. It was during the run of "My Big Red Apple", that I met Dave Lorel, the director. We worked together often to make sure the words sounded aloud the way they did in my head. I might've been a little bossy, but when he kissed me after opening night (and a few drinks) I knew he didn't mind. It was your typical Broadway marriage, a romantic fling that isn't really serious but you want it to be. In the beginning, it was wonderful, full of late nights drinking coffee and watching the sunrise, long stories that served no purpose except to make me laugh. I never called him Dave, I always called him Lorel, it sounds so much better, Dave is such an unoriginal name. I like to be unique. It's not that I hate people who follow the crowd, I just find it boring. But so, we got married, and I moved out of my little apartment into this awesome house.

I had a house built in the suburbs. it was so big it was almost like in Citizen Kane; that movie where he has that huge house that even has a private zoo. The house was surreal, and Laurel and I lived off my royalties. Of course, he insisted on working anyway since he wouldn't have anything to do otherwise. He hated extravagant shows of wealth, but he was an absolute prince about the house. He knew it was something I really wanted. Of course later, he didn't give a damn about what I wanted. But, while I lived in my huge house, I kept writing plays. None of them were very good though; all the fame and fortune had gone to my head. The publishers confirmed it, they kept turning them down.


	3. Chapter 3

I always remember after finishing a play, feeling like I had put my soul into it; then when it was turned down, it felt like I had died, and was stuck in Limbo. You know, the breathless feeling in your chest, no control of your actions, and no care to try. Of course, I should tell you that when I was fifteen I considered suicide. But I never did anything. Just because I found no point in living doesn't mean I found any point in dying either. But, as more of my plays were turned down, I became increasingly aware that I felt dead. Of course, I only got about four hours of sleep a night. I was turning out at least a play a month. I became increasingly ragged feeling, and one day, I just left.

I walked out of my house and wandered the suburbs for a week, knocking on people's doors asking for food. I must have looked completely contradictory in my leather pants and Gucci boots. Maybe that was why I had to knock on about thirty doors a night. I didn't remember who I was; I just remembered that I had left. Lorel wasn't worried; he had given up on my wealth and whims a long time before. Somebody must've eventually called the cops when I knocked on their door though, because the last thing I remember now is a bunch of white shapes quickly closing in on me. The white shapes were surrounded by black on all sides, pitch black. Frightening white. Black has always been a comforting color to me. Besides, it's very slimming. But anyway, they must've taken me away; they told me I was screaming "Laurelie, Laurelie!" as they took me away. I don't think it was my ex-husband Lorel I was screaming about. Frankly, I didn't give a damn about him. Besides, I think adding ie on the end of names is so superficial.

But, they took me away and locked me up for quite a while. They couldn't help me though because neither they nor I knew what the problem was. So, they sent me home. Where I am now. I'm sitting here trying to figure out why I went insane and why I was screaming "Laurelie". It doesn't make sense. But, I can't just sit here staring at the ceiling all day, I have to pack. I'm leaving. Selling my house and moving to California where I grew up. The warmer weather will be good for me. Besides, I can't live in this huge house alone. It'll take me awhile to leave. I'm a pack rat, and I have to go through all the papers and yearbooks I have. The other day, I found my old Crystal Springs yearbook. God, that was a messed up school. I vaguely remember another one, but I don't have a yearbook from any other school. With my memory, I could never remember the name of it anyway. But I swear there were two elementary schools. If only I could remember. The name's on the tip of my tongue… Oh well, I guess I might remember later. I'll have lots of time to think on the plane to California. Flying west has always scared me though. You're going into the setting sun. It's like chasing time, chasing your past. Well, not my past, I can't remember it. But then again, would I want to?


End file.
